The Weird Picture

by John R. Carling

"I donned my rival's attire. I was no more Angelo: I was the Captain. How well his dress became me! Observe my military cloak, my martial stride! See my painted scar—my brown hair and beard! I had prepared for all this weeks beforehand. Who that saw me now would take me for poor 'Il Divino,' whose pictures are always a failure? But I had no time to lose—the Dover train would be starting soon—and, leaving my divine model locked up in the studio, I hurried off to the station, posting on my way the forged letter that was to tell Daphne that her bridegroom had fled to the Continent. Now for Dover to prove the truth of the letter. The booking-clerk, the guard of the train, the ticket-collector, could all swear that an officer in every way resembling Captain Willard had travelled to Dover on that Christmas morning. I stood on the pier-head expressly for you to see me! I knew that you were coming in by that steamer, for Daphne had told me the hour of your intended arrival. Ho, ho! his own brother thrown off the scent, and ready to swear he had seen George at Dover, at the very time that George was lying dead in my studio! It was rare glee afterwards to listen with grave face to the various theories propounded in my presence to account for Captain Willard's flight. And the world calls me mad!"

I was not aware that the world did so; but if it did, it had ample reason in his wild laugh, and demoniac glee. However, as his eyes were off me, I worked away desperately at my silken manacles.

"I must not return to London in the same attire: that would be to contradict the letter; and I must not return in my own: that might involve me in suspicion, and give rise to awkward questions if it were known that I had been at Dover on the morning of Captain Willard's flight. No! I would return disguised in a woman's dress. Ha! ha! how often have I heard you discuss the identity of the veiled lady who travelled with you from Dover to London! Learn now that the veiled lady is before you. Now you know why she was dumb. I could not disguise my voice so effectually but that you might recognise it next morning at the wedding."

To say that I was amazed at this revelation is but a feeble way of expressing it. Great as was my amazement, however, it did not check for an instant my working for freedom.

"There was living then at Dover an old friend of mine from Rivoli—Matteo Carito by name. He was caretaker to an Italian family who were spending their winter abroad. I had paid him a chance visit the previous week, and he had casually told me that he meant to spend his Christmas with some Italian friends in London; he thought he might safely leave the house for a day or two. It would be empty, then, on Christmas morning. Good! Unknown to him, I procured a key that would open the front door; in the secrecy of this house I would assume my female disguise. Do you remember finding me outside old Matteo's house? You came on me as swiftly and silently as a ghost. I was startled, for I knew you were his brother—Daphne had many a time pointed out your portrait to me—and I thought all was discovered. But I baffled you—I eluded you—how adroitly you know. Matteo's house was my asylum. But Matteo had not gone to London after all, and discovered me in the very act of changing my attire. He wanted to know how I had gained access to the house, and why I was masquerading in two different disguises. For a minute I hesitated; I thought of braining him on the spot. It would have been rare sport. But I pitied him—he had known me from childhood—and I concocted some story that seemed to satisfy him at the time. Would now that I had slain him there and then! It would have saved me a world of trouble. He discovered it all!"

I was still tearing away fiercely at my bonds, confident that if the artist continued his ravings for a few more minutes my hands would be free. The friction of the silk on the jagged edge of the pillar produced a sharp rustling noise, but the artist noticed neither the sound nor my motions, so taken was he with the story of his own cleverness. He seemed to be orating more for his own satisfaction than for my information.

"Yes, he discovered it all," continued he. "I had thought myself safe, for had I not effectually disposed of the body? Steeping it in chemicals and wrapping it in asbestos, I had in the dead of night, in the secrecy of my cellar, committed it to the flames. Ho! ho! A true classical funeral that, as became the subject, for was he not the pagan Cæsar of my picture? 'Vulcan, arise! Vasari claims thine aid.' Ah! what a glorious night that was as I moved round the funeral pyre, pouring on oil and chanting an ode from Horace! What a splendid picture it would have made—'A Pagan Funeral!' How I regretted that I had not prepared my canvas for the event! But it was too late to think of that. Then, one dark night, on some lonely common, I scattered the ashes to the four winds. Not a trace of my victim left! And yet, after all my care and caution, that old dotard of a Matteo had discovered my secret—discovered it by accident. I was at Paris, exhibiting my picture to admiring thousands. Among those who thronged to gaze at my 'Cæsar' was a Colonel Langworthy, but just returned from India. 'That face is very like my friend Willard, who disappeared so strangely last Christmas!' he cried. I turned to the speaker, and whom should I see at his elbow but old Matteo, with his great eyes staring at me. He had heard this chance remark: he at once divined my secret. I was so infuriated that next day, when the Colonel was coming to take a second view of my picture, I ordered him to be thrust out—a mad act, for it got into the newspapers, and confirmed Matteo's suspicions. Thenceforward I had no peace, for no bribe would stop his mouth. He was forever reproaching me. I had made him an accessory to a crime, he said. His conscience troubled him for having in a manner aided me to escape on that Christmas morning. He could not sleep at night. Poor fool! He could go no more to Mass with such a sin on his soul. He followed me to Rivoli. He must—he must confess all to the priest. Damn him! he did! That was why Father Ignatius refused me the Mass that morning, and Daphne present, too, to witness my humiliation! It was that that caused her to look with a different face on me, and to turn from my love with scorn. I marvel now that she is still living when I recall my fury at her refusal. She was nearer to death then—nearer to her lost George—than she had been since her bridal morning. My old nurse said I was mad that day; perhaps I was. No matter. Let Daphne refuse me, hate me as she will, she cannot recall her dead hero to life. There was consolation in that thought. That night, as I was making preparations to depart from Rivoli, I came across his grey cloak. I always carried it with me. It was a joy to gaze on it, to think how I had won it. It was a sign of my triumph—it was a proof that he would trouble me no more with his rivalry. I put it on, for I loved to act the scene over again, and sallied out in it. I remember now with what glee I climbed crags and cliffs, singing and dancing along. Aha! who is this in monkish garb that rises up before me in the moonlight? Old Matteo, as I live! Matteo! Matteo the betrayer! He sees me, he turns, he flees. Ha! ha! what feeble steps! I hear him. How he pants for breath! With one fierce leap I am on him. Ho! ho! my hand is on his old throat. How he struggles as I force him to the edge of the cliff! How he clings to me! 'Mercy! mercy!' he screams. Mercy? To him who had robbed me of my fair model? He could not tell any more tales after I had finished with him. From the cliff——"

The artist stopped abruptly, and assumed a listening air. Along the gravel path outside came the tread of many feet approaching the place of my captivity. My heart throbbed wildly with hope, for I made certain that it was the Baronet and my uncle coming to my rescue. It was not so, however. Sounds of laughter, the rough voices of men mingling with the sweeter tones of women, floated upward to our ears, and I knew then that it was the party returning from the vicarage. They passed quickly beneath the window of my prison—so quickly that I had scarcely time to realise the situation—and by and by were standing, so I judged, on the lawn at the rear of the Abbey. Then came a silence, followed by the twanging of strings, the faint puffings of wind instruments, and such sounds as are usually the prelude to music, and I knew that they were going to sing some carols for the edification of the Baronet and the other tenants of the Abbey.

I glanced at the artist. Should I give one loud shout for aid? I hesitated, lest the cry should cause him to sheath his dagger in my breast. I resolved first to make one more attempt to burst my bonds, and, exerting all my strength, I strained desperately at the twisted silk, plunging forward as far as its limited length would allow, careless almost as to whether the eyes of the artist were on me or not.

And now uprose an outburst of instrumental melody which lasted for a minute or so, and then, as the harmony subsided into fainter keys, the carol began. It was a solo.